


Saying the Words (or, Why Batman Doesn't Do Birthdays)

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In constructing the Watchtower, somehow Clark and Bruce construct their own dysfunctional relationship as well. What do you do, when you need to start over?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saying the Words (or, Why Batman Doesn't Do Birthdays)

From the beginning, the Watchtower was Bruce's baby.

It wasn't just the money, though Wayne Corp was footing the bill for the entire operation. "Can I just see the final price tag?" Clark had asked. Yes, it was his fault he hadn't asked to see the numbers until the Tower was already in orbit and they were sitting in a half-constructed conference room, but part of him hadn't wanted to know. 

"Why? Hoping to save up and chip in?"

"Very funny. I would just like to know, is all." And after a few more sketches, Bruce had reached for a scrap of paper, scribbled a figure on it, and tossed it at him.

He had stared at the numbers, unable to believe what he was seeing. "I can't believe this," he said.

"Oh? You saw a better deal on orbiting space stations at Target, maybe?"

"Bruce, how are you doing this? I mean. . . I know you have lots of money, but no one has this much money."

Bruce had sipped his coffee. "You're right, no one does. I'm borrowing about half that against Wayne Corp."

Clark crumpled the paper. "You can't do that. You can't risk everything you've built—everything your father and grandfather built—for this, for a glorified treehouse." He gestured at the blueprints spread on the table.

"Is that what you think this is?" Bruce's brows rushed together. "I thought you understood this. The Justice League has the capacity to be the greatest force for peace and stability the world has ever known. We have the ability to inspire, and the duty to lead. We can't do that if we're tied to any one country, or perceived to have loyalties to one faction or region over another. Space belongs to all of us. But if you have some better idea for where our headquarters should be located, let me know. Maybe you'd like to host us all at the Fortress of Solitude. We might have to change the name, though."

"I'm sorry," Clark said after a minute. "You're right. I just—wish I could help, is all. I feel—embarrassed that I can't, that you have to do this for us."

Bruce went back to his sketching, pulling up something on his pad, then returning to his drawing. After a minute he looked up. "Don't be," he said. "It's what I have to bring to the table. I don't have the strength and invulnerability you and Diana do. I don't mind playing Crassus."

Clark frowned at that. "You're not. Don't say that."

"Didn't expect you to get the reference."

"You know, every time we start to have a moment, I'm reminded how stupid you think I am. You really believe there aren't any books in Kansas, don't you? I know my first triumvirate as well as you do, Princeton." 

Bruce said nothing, but the corner of his mouth quirked. "Come look at this," he said, and with a flick of his finger tossed the schematics onto the larger monitor. "Here are the main living quarters," he said. "Members of the League will be welcome to live there permanently, if they want, or they can just keep a suite of rooms for occasional stays. No one pays rent, no one gets nicer rooms than anyone else, no one who stays here worries where their next meal is coming from."

"A commune," Clark murmured.

"Funded by some pretty aggressive capitalism, but sure, call it what you like. Common living and recreation areas here and here, gym and training areas here. And here," he zoomed in. "Founding members' area."

"Okay. What's different about that part?"

"Nothing, the rooms are the same. Were you hoping for an Admirals' Club upgrade?"

"Very funny. I just meant, why is it set apart like that?"

"Because." Bruce leaned back in his chair. "For some of us—you, me, and Wally, that is—it's crucial to keep our identities secret. So this hallway here has an entry that's retinal scan only. From this point on, we can walk around without cowls or hoods or costumes. No disguises. Or the seventy-five bucks at Lenscrafters that some of us call a disguise."

"It's worked so far," Clark observed mildly.

"There's a small living area on the hallway, too. Founding members only. It's meant to protect our privacy while still allowing us some space to relax. "

Clark squinted at him, trying to imagine what Bruce would look like relaxing. "Okay, but you realize you just created a situation where Wally will have to sneak women into his room. I'll let you imagine how that's going to end."

Bruce grimaced. "There are some free rooms down on the lower floors. Anyone who feels the need to. . . entertain a guest can do it down there. Though I would hope all League members, founders or not, would be professional enough to restrain themselves, on the Watchtower."

"Over fifty of the planet's most extraordinary physical specimens, all of them in the prime of life, locked in a steel tube orbiting Earth. No problem, I'm sure it will be a floating convent."

"You have a better idea?"

Clark laughed. "I don't. I think it looks great, I really do. I can't wait to see this all finished. I just think some of your expectations about professional behavior are a little. . . unrealistic. We haven't specifically addressed fraternization with any of the new League members, but maybe we should. We need to let them know we understand that the need to connect with someone who shares what you do, can be. . . pretty powerful. I think we need to understand that League members will date each other, and that no one has to be hole-and-corner about anything."

"Some League members come from pretty conservative countries."

"Then all the more reason to address the issue, and make it clear other people's business is not their business."

Bruce grunted. "That can be your job."

Clark rose and clapped a hand on his friend's back. "Don't worry, no one was putting you in charge of public relations. Or morale."

"I'll just be over here, paying the bills," Bruce said into his coffee.

"Thanks, Dad, you're the best," and Clark had breezed out of the conference room. He stuck his head back in at the last moment, before the doors whooshed shut. "Just checking, but that bit about no one has a nicer room than anyone else, that's only _mostly_ true, right?"

Bruce shot him a glare that he took for confirmation, and he let the doors slide shut on his grin.

* * *

But for all that it was Bruce's baby, he wasn't above accepting help. In the final stages of construction, most of the work was actually done back on earth, in the Batcave, where Bruce ran endless remote diagnostics of the Watchtower system, constantly searching for ways to improve, upgrade, streamline. Clark's speed vision helped with that; he could stand at a monitor and make sense of streams of data almost faster than Bruce's system could, and could definitely figure out how to solve a problem faster. 

"I'm beat," he said, after at least a solid twelve hours of staring at those screens. He scrubbed at his face and yawned. Impossible to know what time it was, down here. 

"You go to bed," Bruce said. "Get a few hours rest. Go upstairs, Alfred will show you where you can lie down."

"Can't I just crash over there for a bit?" And he nodded at the cot in the corner of the cave. Bruce's quick frown told him his mistake. Bruce's cot was not for sharing, then. Almost two years now of working together, and there were still all these strange landmines around the man, so many odd walls thrusting up out of nowhere. 

"Not very comfortable," he said. "Go upstairs, Alfred will take care of you."

So he complied, because a night in Wayne Manor was not something you turned down, and he let Alfred show him to the guest room on the main floor closest to the cave, even though the old man protested it wasn't nearly nice enough.

"It will be fine," Clark reassured him, and tried not to be impressed by the room's size and luxury—the freshly folded towels at the ready, the impossibly vast and soft bed, the silk pajamas laid across its foot. 

He slept like a log, and awakened with a start while it was still dark outside. The little Tiffany clock by the side of the bed chimed four a.m., and he leaped up, threw some water on his face, and headed back downstairs—he had only meant to shut his eyes briefly, not loll around half the night. The blue glow in the cave told him Bruce was still at it, but he was standing, scribbling something, now typing feverishly, gliding from one console to another.

"Bruce," he said. "Tell me you have slept."

"Hm? I think I did, a little. Not sure. Take a look at this, what do you make of it? Have I miscalculated everything? There's still time to fix it, but I can't be sure. Just can't seem to concentrate." He took another swallow of coffee. The red rims of his eyes had red rims, but he was clearly not slowing down anytime soon. 

Clark came closer, peered at the monitor. "No," he said. "I think—no, wait, here, see? That's the problem."

"I knew it," Bruce said. His voice was grim. "That's at least another three hours' work, to fix that. I'll need your help, if you're awake enough for it."

"Sure, anything."

"Good. Put your shirt on."

"I—" Clark glanced down at himself. He was wearing just the pajama bottoms, having stumbled down here still half-asleep. "Oh." He laughed. "No, it's fine. It's probably chilly down here to you, but I don't feel cold."

Bruce was squinting through a spectrometer at something. "I didn't ask because I was worried you might get the sniffles," he said shortly. "I asked because it's a distraction. Put something on."

"Oh," said Clark, and went back upstairs. He put on his jeans and shirt, and his shoes too. When he reappeared Bruce was still typing at supersonic speed, scowling at something. 

"So, ah," Clark said. Bruce didn't turn around. "Sorry about that." Clark cleared his throat. "Mind if I ask a question?"

Bruce grunted, which was probably all the permission he was going to get.

"Are you gay?"

If Bruce was surprised at the question, or discomfited by it, he didn't show it. He kept typing, and only broke off to stare through the spectrometer some more. He raised his head after a bit and looked at Clark like he had just asked what was his favorite ride at Disney World. "Yes," he said, and went back to his calculations. 

"Okay," Clark said, and kept standing there. "Well."

There was silence for a few more minutes, and Clark realized he really ought to be doing something—helping scan some more of those calculations, for one thing. And then Bruce was looking at him.

"Do we have a problem here?"

"I—with what? Oh! You mean with the—ah—no. No problem."

Bruce tossed his eyeglasses on the console. "Look, Kansas. When I called you 'Boy Scout,' I was being metaphorical, but obviously you have a little more in common with the Boy Scouts of America than I—"

"No! God, no, Bruce, I didn't—I'm sorry. You just. . . surprised me, is all. Not in a bad way. At all. I mean. . . I'm not, you know, exactly straight myself. I'm bi, I guess is the word. I mean, if that would be useful information to have." Bruce's eyebrows rose.

Clark shook his head. "I didn't mean—just that you keep files on all of us, and it might be useful information in that way. That's what I meant. My—it's a Kryptonian thing. Not that I was aware it was. But Kara. She is. . . like that. She knew it was, you know, normal for a Kryptonian. I didn't. I had thought it was just me. So, you know, her summer on Themiscyra last year was. . . definitely more awesome than I had planned for it to be."

Just like there was never any telling what wall would suddenly appear out of nowhere, so there was no telling what would make Bruce laugh. He laughed now, long and low, rubbing at his eyes. The deep warm of his chuckle made Clark laugh too. It was nice to see the lines crinkle around Bruce's eyes in something other than a squint or a scowl. 

"All right," Bruce said. "I give up. I'm tossing it in for a while. I'm no good anymore, all these numbers look the same. Can you monitor the scanner while I close my eyes?"

"Sure."

"Shouldn't be that much more to go, maybe forty-five more minutes. Finish it out, if you can."

"Okay," Clark said, suppressing his yawn. "When I'm done, I might just catch a few more z's upstairs again, if you don't mind. I used to think all mattresses were more or less the same. You've destroyed that for me now."

"Whatever." Bruce waved his hand and headed up the stairs. He paused halfway up. "I sleep on the third floor," he said. "Second door on the left. If that would be useful information to have." 

And then he had disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

It wasn't even a hard decision. In retrospect, deciding to crawl into bed with his best friend should probably have required a bit more soul searching and reflection than it did. But in reality, his body had made that decision for him before Bruce had even left the cave.

Bruce was not what he had expected, in bed, and if he had thought he was going to bed with Batman, five minutes had disabused him of that: there was none of Batman's gruff command, in Bruce's bed. On the other hand, Bruce was in bed very much what he was outside of it: by turns tender and menacing, unpredictable, intent. He said very little in bed, but then he said very little most other places, too. He kissed like he was mapping difficult terrain, and this thing between them was nothing if not that. He shouldn't have been surprised that Bruce was extraordinarily sensual, but it was sex like he had never experienced before, and despite what Bruce probably thought, he was not a prude, nor was he inexperienced. But Bruce was another order of thing altogether.

And as amazing as it was, as wonderful as it was, it stopped at the bedroom door. Outside it, there was never the slightest indication that anything had changed in their relationship, at all. They argued like before, snarked at each other like before, helped each other out like before. It wasn't even as though Bruce was trying to hide, or cover: it was like he really did not perceive any difference. And after about six months of it, Clark realized he had no idea if they were dating or not. He thought about phoning one of those daytime radio call-in shows. _Hi, this is Muddled in Metropolis. As it turns out, I may be dating Batman, but I'm not sure. Can you help?_ But after about another six months, he decided he didn't care: whatever it was, the sex was phenomenal, and that was enough.

Until the day it wasn't.

He had been flipping through one of the Gotham society rags, because at the _Daily Planet_ 's metro desk, that was one of his jobs, dreary as it was—combing other cities' society pages for interesting tidbits, or the occasional Metropolis name. Bruce Wayne was in them often enough. But there was one picture, taken two nights before, of Bruce Wayne with his arms snaked around two people: a young woman and an even younger and better looking man. Bruce was leaning into the young woman and saying something in her ear that was making her shriek with laughter, and something about the picture—what it was he couldn't have said—made it perfectly obvious to him Bruce had slept with both of them. Bruce's arm around the young man had definitely slipped lower than his waist. 

In his head, it would go like this: he would walk into Bruce's rooms in the Watchtower. Not his house, not the cave—someplace more neutral, where he didn't feel like he was on Bruce's territory. (Foolishness, he knew: every square inch of flooring in the Watchtower was Bruce's territory, bought and paid for.) And he would toss the newspaper on the table in front of Bruce and say, _Please, I need for this to stop_. Bruce would put down his book with a look of mild annoyance. _Why?_ he would say. _I need that persona._ And Clark would say, _I know that. But I'm asking this thing_. And Bruce would hold his eyes, considering. _All right_ , he would say, going back to his book. And just like that, they would know where they stood. 

It was a conversation he would never have. 

Sometimes he wondered if he was hallucinating the whole thing. In bed, in the dark, Bruce was wildly tender, seizing his face to kiss him, moaning almost with need of him. _This is the truth, this is who we truly are_ , Clark would think. And then the next day, perhaps at a mission briefing, or passing in the hall, or even having a casual conversation, it would be the walls again. Bruce would be a million miles away, and if he spoke, Bruce gave him the same look he gave everybody, his please-don't-say-anything-stupid-because-that-will-cause-me-physical-pain look. And he would doubt the truth that he had known in the night, because perhaps this, instead, was the truth: an alliance of sorts, even an uneasy friendship, but nothing more. 

Not that their couplings were as frequent as all that. They both had cities to protect, and business to be about, and sometimes a week would go by before he realized he hadn't seen Bruce in the flesh, other than the occasional text about League business. And then one or the other of them would say, _I think we need to meet up_ , and the next night they would be at the Manor, or Clark's apartment. Never, ever, at the Watchtower. 

There were only a few nights when he knew for sure and certain that Bruce would not be willing to meet him. He knew Bruce would not agree to do anything on his birthday, for instance, or on Clark's. Valentine's Day was a hell no, and anything that suggested romance or relationships or basically, any normal human dating interaction, was off limits. He had learned that the hard way, on Bruce's birthday. 

"I had thought we could go out tonight," he had said, and Bruce had stared at him.

"Go out?"

"Sure, like to dinner. You know, things people do on their birthday?"

Bruce had been in full cowl and Batsuit, and when he had drawn his cape around him, it had been to full and devastating effect. "I'm busy," he had said. 

"Okay. I understand if you don't like your birthday. I don't much care for mine, either. It's not actually my birthday, just the day my parents found me, so it always made me feel even less like I belonged. Plus, summer birthday, so no cupcakes in school or anything."

"Tragic," Bruce murmured. 

"I'm a brave soldier. Anyway, happy birthday."

Bruce had swept away without another comment. Valentine's Day had been even worse: Bruce had managed to be in Antarctica. Literally, in Antarctica. It wasn't as though Clark had somehow had the idea they would go out and actually celebrate the day, because he found the holiday as ridiculous as Bruce did: what bothered him was that _Bruce_ clearly thought he might expect it, and had purposefully put himself on another continent for it. How stupid did Bruce think him, exactly?

 _I don't actually spend my days pining to be with you_ , he thought about saying, when Bruce got back. _And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not your clingy high school girlfriend, so cut it out._ But then, he couldn't think of a way to end that conversation that didn't end with. . . well, ending what they were doing, and he wasn't willing to do that, not yet. Maybe not ever. 

So when it came time for his birthday, he dreaded it, because he knew Bruce would probably find it necessary to be even more distant than usual, just to make some asinine point. He had monitor duty most of that day, too, because of course, no one bothered to know it was his birthday, and sure, why not chain Clark to a bank of computer monitors for eight dreary hours. By evening he was in a foul temper, and he even took Wally's head off when he suggested they take a shortcut on the subroutine diagnostic. 

He didn't go back to his apartment that night—he rarely did on late duty nights—but showered in the founders' area, enjoying padding around in t-shirt and jeans. No one else around, of course. Everyone else had lives, and if they weren't completely normal lives, at least their sex lives were probably a little more normal, a little less weird and sad than his.

It was when he was toweling off his hair that he discovered he was done. Just that: done. Like someone flipping a switch. It wasn't even going to be necessary to break up with Bruce, because Bruce would probably act like he didn't know what the hell he was talking about. It would be easy enough just not to answer the next text, or the one after that, and then Bruce would probably be done asking, and that would be that. No acknowledgement. Why should the end of their whatever-it-was be any different from the beginning?

"Can't believe it took you a year to get there," he said sourly to his own reflection, tugging the towel around his neck and heading back to his quarters. 

The doors whooshed open on darkness, and he tossed his towel aside. And then he froze, because Bruce was standing by the wide windows that looked out on infinite stars. Dressed in civvies, hands in his pockets, a rueful expression on his face. There was a cake on the table beside him, and a lone candle on it. 

"Happy Birthday," he said, with a lopsided quirk in the corner of his mouth, and something very like nervousness in his eyes. As though he was unsure what Clark was going to say.

So he didn't say anything, and he didn't even wait to cross the room: he used his super-speed to put himself in Bruce's space, his mouth on Bruce's mouth. It was the kiss he'd been waiting all year to give him, and he felt the jolt in Bruce's body, almost as though he was going to push him away, but Clark just kissed harder, until Bruce's lips yielded. His hands came up to Clark's arms in what was probably meant to be resistance, but they fell back.

Several things happened at once.

First, all the lights clicked on.

Second, every founding member of the League jumped from behind the furniture, with party horns and stupid hats.

Third, nobody said anything. They stood there with slack faces, the grins frozen and fading, their eyes wide. 

Clark released Bruce. He had never been in a quieter room.

"Surprise," said Bruce finally.

* * *

As it turned out, the honoree did not need to be having a good time for a party to be a success. 

It had been Wally—God bless Wally—who had saved the day. He blew his horn loudly, and tossed a handful of confetti, and shouted, "Happy Birthday, big guy!" and somehow Clark was stretching his face in a smile and nodding appreciatively. Everyone congratulated him, shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, everyone had a present to toss on the table beside the cake. Everyone except Bruce, who was heading out the door without another word. 

John cranked the music, and Shayera was pulling him to dance with her, and he kept trying to smile and act as relaxed and happy as possible. Diana pulled him from Shayera, and danced with him too, and mainly he spent as much of the night as possible trying not to meet anyone's eyes. By common consent, apparently, no one said anything about what had happened. Even J'onn appeared to be having an all right time, though he showed definite skepticism when Wally explained that naked twister was the traditional Terran way to celebrate natal festivities. Shayera set up a shots contest with Diana, and he considered explaining to her that Amazons didn't actually metabolize alchohol, but there was some serious money changing hands, so he put his fifty on Diana and left it at that. 

His room had a small kitchen area, and he spent most of his time in there dispensing ice, pretending to busy himself with the keg. There was actuallly excellent beer in that keg, and he wondered if Bruce had been in charge of that.

"Thanks," he said, pocketing the hundred Diana slipped him. "I figured you were safe money."

"Amazonians do not back down from a challenge," she said. "But I wanted to tell you. About this evening. With Bruce. I am very sorry."

"Oh no, it's fine," he said. 

"Really. You do not appear fine."

"It was just a long day."

She hesitated, like she wanted to say more. Bruce had an excellent face for shutting down unwanted comments. No one ever ventured further remarks after Batman had made it clear the discussion was at an end. Unfortunately, his own face apparently had _please go on_ as its default expression. Diana leaned against the counter and lowered her voice. She was going on.

"I didn't have any idea," she said. "If I had known—"

"I said it's fine. It's not like it matters anyway."

"Oh," she said, obviously confused.

"I mean—I just mean it's not that sort of relationship, is all."

"Oh," she said again. Clearly all he was doing was deepening her confusion. "Well," she said, "I don't really know what that means, but that's probably because I don't yet understand the mating customs of Man's World." _You and me both, sister_ , he wanted to say, and then laughed, imagining her face if he did. She was looking at him oddly. 

"All I know is that Bruce was the one who organized this party. He was very concerned that everything be done correctly. I was curious about it, because this is my first surprise party, and it seemed an unwise custom to me. But also I remarked that he had not celebrated your birthday in this fashion last year, and he said that he had some things to make up for this year. Those were his words."

"Oh," he said. "Well. That's—League stuff, probably."

"Undoubtedly."

"Hey man!" Wally leaned over the arch into the kitchen and grinned a beery grin at him. "It's your birthday! Happy birthday, man!"

"Thanks, Wally," he said. Wally collapsed in laughter. 

"That was the best," he said. "Oh my God, Batman's face when you _kissed_ him. I swear to God, I even thought that was for _real_ for like, thirty seconds there. Oh my God, tongue and everything, I cannot even believe it. Worst thirty seconds of my life, man. That was the most hilarious thing ever."

"Shut up, Wally," said Diana.

"Okay," he said cheerfully, and ducked out. 

"I'm sor—" Diana began, but really he had had enough.

"It's _fine_ ," he said, through gritted teeth. He was going to have come up with something better than that. In Kansas, everyone understood that _it's fine_ meant _shut the hell up before I deck you into next week_ , but nobody around here spoke Midwestern. He pasted a smile back on his face and returned to pumping the keg in determined silence.

* * *

He didn't see Bruce until the next day, when he strode onto Clark's floor at the _Planet_. Clark stared in shock. For a minute he thought maybe it was a mistake, that Bruce hadn't known this was his floor and was just conducting some business in Metropolis that had happened to take him. . . here, which was of course unlikely. A few curious heads were turning, over at the other end of the bullpen. Bruce was making a beeline for his desk. Clark pulled his feet off the filing cabinet and stood up.

"Ahh. . ." he said, with a nervous glance around. 

"Bruce Wayne," he said, and he stuck out his hand. "I've read your work."

"Ah—of course, yes. Thank you, Mr. Wayne." He shook the offered hand, a bit too firmly. "I—ah—would you like to—" and he gestured at the chair beside his desk, stacked with papers. He quickly shifted them to the floor, brushed off the chair. "If you'd like to sit down. . ."

Bruce promptly sat, folding his coat over his knees. _What the hell are you doing_ , Clark telegraphed with his eyes, but no one was paying them too much attention—fortunately Bruce had arrived in the middle of lunch, and most everyone was already gone, and none of the nearby desks were occupied. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" Bruce asked, with a raised eyebrow.

Clark licked his lips. "Sure. Clark Kent. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"You don't look very pleased." 

Clark said nothing to that. "Well at any rate," Bruce said, in the tone of one making pleasant conversation. "I understand yesterday was your birthday. Many happy returns of the day."

Clark set his jaw at that. "Look," he said in an undertone, "I don't know what this little game is, but—"

"And I was wondering," Bruce continued, riding over him. "Even though it was of course your birthday yesterday, I was wondering if I might beg a present of you."

Clark narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Bruce hesitated. Clark wasn't sure he'd ever seen Bruce hesitate before he spoke. Bruce shifted, put his hands in his pockets. "May I—may I begin again?"

"Begin what, exactly?"

"Everything."

Clark tapped a pencil on his desk. He watched a few people mill about over near the stairwell. No one was paying them any mind. No one seemed to have recognized Bruce, other than the one or two heads that had turned when he came in, and they had all drifted off to lunch. "I don't know," he said. 

Bruce was nodding. "I think that is an acceptable thing not to know. May I tell you some of what I know?"

Clark made a noncommittal gesture with the pencil.

"For instance," Bruce said. "I know the name of your favorite elementary school teacher."

"I doubt that." 

"Mrs. Krebnitz. You said once that lots of teachers told you your writing was good, but in fourth grade Mrs. Krebnitz took you aside once and said your writing would be publishable, some day, and that was what decided you to go into journalism."

"Well that. Also the money, fast cars, and women."

"You make 55 a year, your car is a 97 Toyota, and your only girlfriend—" Bruce glanced at Lois's empty desk—"dumped you hard, so I'm guessing it's the writing."

Clark allowed himself the smallest twitch of a smile. "Good guess."

"Would you like to hear some other things that I know?" 

Clark crossed his arms, but he gave a curt nod. 

"I know you tie your tie left over right," Bruce said, his voice low and intent, "which your father must have taught you because that's a midwestern quirk, and you've never changed it even though you know other ways to tie a tie, because it's a daily thing you do to honor him. I know the way you take your coffee, with cream and five sugars, so maybe you might want to examine whether it's coffee you want to be drinking at all."

"I like the taste," Clark murmured, and Bruce arched an eyebrow.

"So you think. I know that you work at hiding how smart you are, because that was what you learned when you were young, to hide the things that made you different, and your intelligence is just one more of those things. I know you've never hung a towel back on its rack in your life, and are probably incapable of learning at this point. I know you are an implacable enemy, and your trust, once squandered, can't be regained. I know you are patient with those you love, and quick to make excuses for them when they fail you. I know you can't stand guacamole."

"It's the texture, really," said Clark. 

"I know what you think about cowards," Bruce continued. "And I know how disappointed in me you have been. So, my question is this: do I know you well enough to take you to dinner?"

Clark weighed that. "Dinner," he said.

"Dinner. The sort of thing you take someone to, when you want to spend time with them. Clark. May I begin again?"

"And I should say yes to this, because. . . why, now?"

"Because I made a mistake. Because I misjudged. Because I thought that if sex was all you wanted, I could at least give you that. I've wanted you since I first met you, and I thought that was the only way I could ever have you, even if it was just for a few hours a week, even if you never wanted more from me. It's been the hardest year of my life, and I can't pretend any more that I don't feel what I feel, and I think—I hope—I pray I'm not wrong, that you might want. . . something more from me than just what I can give between the hours of sundown and sunup."

"And if I said no?"

Bruce's eyes studied the floor. "Then I would do my best to live with that, and know that I had no one to blame but myself for losing my one chance at being with—" he stopped abruptly, and Clark watched his jaw muscle work. He watched him swallow. "Is that my answer?" Bruce said, and he did not look up. 

"It's not," said Clark softly. Bruce's eyes looked up then. They met Clark's, and rested there, and Clark knew for sure that the conference room next to Perry's office was empty, and had a lock on the door, and he wanted to take Bruce in there and— "Where did you have in mind for dinner?" he asked.

"I have reservations for this evening at Le Camperol, but I could change them to another place if there's something else you'd prefer."

"What if there was something I wanted more than dinner?"

Bruce gave the smallest smile. "There's only one thing on this earth that tastes better than dinner at Le Camperol, but I'm pretty sure giving you a blowjob under your desk right now is a career-ender." 

Clark's throat went desert-dry, because just as casually as if he were ordering from the wine list Bruce had just said _I like the taste of your cock in my mouth_ , and Clark knew his swallow was audible. Bruce's mouth on his cock was the one thing that unstrung him completely. _Don't move_ , Bruce had said, that first time. _I have to move_ , Clark had whispered, after Bruce's mouth had slid down his length and up again, hot and wet. _Then I stop_ , Bruce said. And he didn't speed up, didn't show any awareness at all that Clark was shaking underneath him, struggling to hold himself still while Bruce's mouth licked and laved and suckled. _Fuck Bruce please_ , he had gasped, and in return all he had gotten was the lazy pressure of a finger beneath his balls, pressing in on his cock-root, and he had come in Bruce's mouth in long heavy spurts. These were the things that happened in his head when Bruce off-handedly threw out the word _blowjob_. It was the first time they had referred to sex outside of the bedroom, ever. One word, and Clark was halfway to hard. 

"What was the thing you wanted more than dinner?"

"Oh. I just wanted some cake. I never got a chance to eat any last night."

Wordlesly, Bruce reached under his coat and put a clear plastic box on Clark's desk. Inside was a hideous grocery-store cupcake, with blue-swirl icing and a little plastic _Happy Birthday!_ stuck on top. It looked just like every birthday cupcake everyone else but him had gotten in grade school. It was perfect. Clark's smile stretched across his face, and Bruce smiled too, because say what you would about Bruce, he was never slow to see his moment of win. 

Clark rested his hand on the plastic box. "That thing I wanted," he said, hesitantly.

"No more closets," Bruce said. "No more hiding. I promise. I won't run away like that again. You have my word."

Clark popped open the plastic box and took out his chocolate and blue-smeared cupcake. He licked the icing, running his tongue around the outside. A bit of frosting stuck to the corner of his mouth. He saw Bruce's eyes rest on the spot. "So," he said, swiping his finger on more of the plastic-tasting icing, and nibbling at it. "If I said, for instance, and just hypothetically, that I wanted you to come over here, in the middle of this room, with those people over by the elevator watching us, and lick this frosting off my lips, would you do it?"

Bruce's voice, when he answered, was guttural and slow: Batman's voice. "On my fucking knees," he said, and Clark's insides turned over on themselves. He hastily wiped his mouth, and shoved his cupcake out of the way. He reached behind him to grab his coat.

"Come on," he said, a firm hand on Bruce's wrist. "We're getting out of here. Like hell I'm waiting for tonight."

* * *

There was no big announcement. There was never any discussion of it at all, in fact. It was a non-event. But several weeks later, they were in the Watchtower sitting room on the founders' corridor—most of them, anyway. John had discovered that none of them knew how to play poker, to his infinite disgust, and he had decided he was going to teach everyone and start a sort of poker night, civilian clothes only; on the face of it, a terrible idea, but because it was John, no one was going to say no. Well, Bruce would gladly have said no, Clark knew, but because he asked him to come, Bruce did. 

As the evening wore on, the actual poker players dwindled to himself, John, J'onn (whose unreadable face made him a natural at the game) and Diana, who turned out to be the real champion. Clark secretly suspected her of brushing the lasso of truth against the knees of her opponents when they were trying to bluff her, but no matter—Diana never saw the use for money, and always gave it away whenever she ran across any. Wally and Shayera were leaning over, kibitzing—Shayera over John, making faces at his hand that plainly telegraphed its contents to any onlookers, and Wally over Diana's mainly because Wally would never give up a chance to get in Diana's physical space if he could find a way to get there. Someone really should have told him several years ago that that was a non-starter, but Wally's optimism was indefatigable, even in the absence of all encouragement. 

John was in the middle of a story from his Marine days—a long, rambling one with a more complicated plot than anyone was following, but that was okay, it was more the companionable sound of his voice than anything—when Bruce came up behind Clark. Clark made a couple of plays, aware of Bruce's eyes on his cards, and offered appropriate noises at important plot turns in John's increasingly convoluted story, when he felt a touch on his shoulder. Just the gentlest touch of Bruce's hand, resting there. After a moment, Bruce's thumb began rubbing lightly against the back of his neck: the most absent of proprietary gestures, and the most calculated too. 

There was the smallest hitch in John's story. He glanced up, and Clark knew Bruce's eyes were daring him to stop, daring him to remark, but then the story picked up again, with no interruption. Clark studied his cards, but in his peripheral vision he saw Wally's eyes widen. He lifted his head and gave Wally a level look, but then Wally's eyes dropped, and a few seconds later a mischievous, conspiratorial grin was on his face. The round dwindled to an ignominious end (for him, at least) and the Watchtower had not somehow spun off its axis, the earth had not crashed into the sun, and boom tubes full of invading hostile aliens had not opened in space; everything was exactly as it had been. It was all the announcement there would ever be, and all that was needed. 

Their fucking that night was hard and fierce—so rough that Clark would have apologized afterward, had Bruce's pleasure in it not been evident. Clark had not been able to get enough, taste enough, and Bruce had fisted the sheets and arched back into him, just as eager for it. Most of the time they were a bit careful of each other when it came to sex, a bit more negotiatory, but tonight Clark had wanted—needed—to claim Bruce, and when he had husked in Bruce's ear _mine mine you're mine_ while fucking him, that had been when Bruce had groaned and come massively, all over Clark's hungry fingers.

"Soundproof walls," Clark panted, when he had breath enough for speech. He flopped back on the bed. "Another good call on your part."

"I am," Bruce said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with an edge of the sheet, "nothing if not an excellent engineer. Make the structure solid, and everything will fall into place around it."

"Again with you and the dirty talk," Clark said, rolling over and crawling up to Bruce on his elbows. He collapsed on Bruce's chest, and felt the low rumble of his laugh. 

"Get off, too heavy," Bruce said, pushing at his head, but they didn't move. Clark could hear the hitch in his breath, and then the slow evening out, that told him when Bruce drifted off. He stayed awake for a long time, just riding those slow inhales, counting each one. Sometime after two in the morning Bruce stirred and gave his head a hard shove, rolling over. 

"Said, get off," he muttered, irritated and sleep-slurry. "Never listen word I say." Clark smiled into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Amanuensis and Mithen for beta duty! Dear Amy continues to slog through the DC-verse even though I keep resolutely writing stories in which Hawkeye makes not a single goddamn appearance. And without Mithen's keen eye, this whole story would have been an AU about an Israeli farming collective in which the time-space continuum collapses into an irrigation ditch.


End file.
